SwordOfHeroes
by Jess Gulbranson
Summary: A scholarly tribal is dedicated to recording the life and death of the Courier as she begins to reshape the Waste- even if it kills him. Please read/review. M for foul language, eventual violence, and tedious philosophy.
1. All The Terrifying Truths

**Be careful- it's going to get all transhumanist up in here! Please read and review. I have great ideas for where this is going to go.**

ALL THE TERRIFYING TRUTHS

You know her. You might not see her in person, but she'll see you just the same. Are you up to no good? Thinking you can slide in through the New Vegas and start up a little kidnapping operation, a little smuggling ring? Well, she'll be there to catch you, and the results will not be pretty. Or maybe she'll be away on one of her little sabbaticals and you'll get away with it. Hard to say. But knowing what happens when she gets unhappy... Do you want to risk it?

Who is she? That's a fine question. One that we can maybe begin to approach answering if we take a moment, step back from the issue, and at least try to act like real scholars, instead of terrified little rats cringing in the dark corners of the wasteland.

The Courier. You've heard that name. She decided not long ago that it wasn't what she'd prefer to be called, but a few people with a death wish still called her that. Some people passed some other titles around- Savior, Messiah... Last Best Hope For Humanity. Red Lucy calls her "My Hunter", in hushed tones, and Caesar, well... Caesar called her a cunt, right before she put a bullet through his eye. Her name is Elizabeth.

I call her Lizzy Blue.

She doesn't mind- in fact, it was her who told me she liked the name. Not hard to see why it would fit- it's anyone's guess where she found that much hair color, but she used it, and her hair was an eye-catching shade of vivid purple-blue. "Round Midnight," she said, when I asked what that shade was called. Conspicuous- sure. But you knew when you saw that blue coming your way, it was time to make nice. Problem was, would that hair be tucked under a fearsome red 1st Recon beret, or would it be falling to her shoulders above the straps of a prewar gown? Maybe you wouldn't see the hair at all, and all you'd see would be the glowing orange lenses of a power armor helmet.

Not that she needed power armor- but sometimes you just don't want the annoyance of bullets hitting you, I suppose. She could be stark naked and unarmed and still the deadliest thing around. Lizzy Blue could jump down a near-fatal height and barely be staggered. Lizzy Blue could take take two 9mm slugs to the head and crawl back out of her grave. Lizzy Blue could be across the room when you lobbed a molotov cocktail at her, and then all of a sudden, zip- she would be right next to you, _on fire_, lashing out in some brutal dance step with a fistful of industrial buzzsaw. Lizzy Blue could kill a deathclaw. Two deathclaws. Three.

How could anything- any_one_- be that fast? There was word that she was a mutant- not the big green kind, mind you, but some product of radiation or prewar biological tinkering, and that was true. There was also word that she was a cyborg- implanted with devices that granted her strange abilities. That her bones were metal, her skin hard as stone, even the sultry tone of her voice augmented with a tiny computer that calculated what you wanted to hear. All those were true as well.

They say that she rained atomic fire down on a Legion encampment, just because.

They say that she traveled to the devastated site of her nuclear bombardment, her 1st Recon bullyboy in tow, and killed off the survivors, every single one of those poor irradiated bastards.

True also. There are more true facts about the Courier- about Lizzy Blue- going around, than there are tall tales. Even though it might strain credulity. I can attest to it. And who am I, you may be asking, to know so much about her comings and goings? Who am I, to be privy to these details?

My name is Sword-Of-Heroes. That Sword is the pen that scratches this page now. It's the blinking green cursor on the terminals I use. Some tribes have shaman. Some have priests, or sineaters, or skinwalkers. My tribe has me. We have always tread the jungles of concrete and steel, hunting our quarry of rare books and cloistered secrets. We count coup with words, and when it was time to send the Sword-Of-Heroes forth, our greatest young scholar- me- gave up his old name and went in search of the Courier. In search of Lizzy Blue, to offer her my services as chronicler. As amanuensis. The scribe of her deeds.

The Sword-Of-Heroes does not tarry long upon the stories of those who will pass from this world peacefully in their sleep, at a ripe old age, or those who would find contentment in the arms of a stable partner, lving a life of quiet comfort. Heroes- real heroes- drown in their own blood. They find their end shivering and broken at the bottom of a ravine, spending their last moments cursing the fathers that sired them and crying out for the mothers that birthed them. Heroes die in fire. In frost.

Lizzy Blue does not think that this rule applies to her, and she seems to think the whole thing a grand flattering joke. Not having someone around to be her Boswell, so to speak- no, the thing that sends her into those spasms of breathy laughter is the idea of her dying. Understandable, I suppose, for someone who's sent so many others to their own end. For someone whose wounds knit themselves closed within a few minutes. Whatever respect she has for my scholarly office, whatever jolly she gets from the situation- she treats me like a dog. A well-kept dog.

Perhaps she does so to defy her own mortality. If that is true- that she could still feel fear- then perhaps there is some hope to be found in my efforts. Or perhaps that, of all things, is my own tall tale. For someone who could resurrect the grim shade of nuclear apocalypse- _out of pique_- why then, what would that person be motivated to do out of fear of oblivion?

It's already happening. New Vegas is changing, its ghosts exorcised. No gods, no masters. New ghosts come creeping down from the Big Empty, on chrome legs and Saturnite wings. At her bidding.

I will here until the end, Sword at the ready. And for all the things that I have seen come to pass so far- all the terrifying truths- none of them are what really scare me.

What really scares me is what she is _going to do._


	2. If You've Read One, You've Read Them All

There are children here in the wasteland- you must have seen them. Precious, of course, the hope of the future unless you're a slaver or a raider. But let's pretend for a moment that you aren't, and are perhaps curious about how children are supposed to be raised, how they are supposed to grow up.

This isn't something we can glean too much from the past, not in this humble scholar's opinion. Everyone has seen ads from before the war, so we all think that children dressed like vampires or princesses or little heavy troopers. The most ignorant of us, with no knowledge of the prewar celebration "Halloween," will think that this was true year round. Maybe we also believe that every little girl wanted a Giddyup Buttercup, and every boy a Red Racer.

But did they?

There are ghouls around who were children before the war- but their condition and the erosion of centuries render their memories suspect. Maybe some of you out there came from vaults- you've seen the filmstrips and assume you know how things were back then. You think that because you got it straight from the source. Wrong, my friends, you are wrong. It doesn't take a professional critic to figure out that any text- itself suspect from its author- will suffer mistreatment at all the hands it passes through down the years. So... no dice.

I might be too harsh on what is assuredly the finest point of an already rarefied and near-to-vanishing science. I read everything I find, whether a dry medical journal or the jingoistic pornography of a "Guns n' Bullets" magazine. But, as you may be guessing, it is not the text of these that interest me. The advice on calibrating your laser pistol or the newest smooth hucksterisms, these things are immaterial. If you've read one, you've read them all. Might as well be toilet paper.

I can almost hear your gasps, you hardened wasteland survivors, acting shocked like some prewar society ladies hearing a muttered epithet. But this is the text I am talking about. You can keep the text, as far as I am concerned. What I do care about is the paratext: the advertisements, the letters to the editor. Those of you who read, and reread the books you find, trying to absorb every last technique, each seemingly vital detail- you wonder how I could survive with such negligence. You would insist that I am a madman.

But- I tell you now- I am the Sword-Of-Heroes, and my doom is not like that of other men.

Fine, I will probably never have children, and I'm sure that is for the best. The only stories I could tell them would give them nightmares. But that is alright. I haven't had much time these days to dally with the fairer sex as much as I'd like. That could always change. Lizzy Blue surrounds herself with killers and monstrous machines and every hard luck case her whimsy finds, but she also has at her side two luscious maidens I was recently introduced to- Veronica and Rose of Sharon.

It's part of my doom to catalog every detail of hers- so in due course I will be interviewing that motley crew- every one, and I hope to get a little closer to that redhead.

Regardless of any potential dalliance I might entertain, I know that for the Sword-Of-Heroes my legacy will not go into the future, at least not in the flesh. If I'm to pass on- if Lizzy Blue lets me, because oh, I have heard the rumors of the harness- if I am to pass on, then what I will leave to future generation is only words.

That is, of course, if there are any future generations left to read.


	3. In Which The SwordOfHeroes Complains

**Well, this story is taking on a life of its own, as all good stories tend to. I find that I'm needing to lay some ground for what is coming next. Please forgive the crazy tense jumping- I decided not to care about that. And Sword-Of-Heroes is growing into his own, instead of just being an impartial narrator. He's kind of an asshole, actually. Much like his creator.**

There is a noise, and it is driving me crazy.

Those of you who live in the waste don't know how lucky you are. The trifles you have to deal with- random gunfire, the baying of starving and rabid dogs, screams of murderous deathclaws and their victims- all these are muffled and distant. The wasteland is full of open spaces, elbow room for everyone, and blissful quiet when blissful quiet is necessary. Here in New Vegas, even in the relatively sedate outlying areas, the noise is constant.

Now, I was raised a hunter in the bosom of my tribe. Our ancestral grounds were in a university library, in a part of the world now known as 'The Commonwealth.' Since my earliest memories we've tracked down our literary quarry and counted critical coup in both Alexandria and The Smithsonian, and wintered along the radiant shores just outside the Cayce Institute. Always, just behind the environmental noise that does not concern a true warrior, is the sound of the hunt- whispering pages bound in crackling spines, the settling of beams and subtle emanations of sun-warmed drifting dust, the scuttling those enormously mutated Scutigera on their uncountable legs (these we nicknamed 'Phil', as in 'many shoes to...') or the draconic ancient boilers coaxed into hissing life by our shamans.  
>These sounds of the hunt are comforting, even ignorable. I've done my best to recreate the experience here at the Lucky 38, Lizzy Blue's museum of a fortress right on the bustling Strip.<p>

I believe this place to be the final hunting grounds of the Sword-Of-Heroes.

Oh, Lizzy Blue... for all she is amused at what she perceives to be my 'farcical quest', she remains practical, and she has given into my care an entire floor of the long-deserted casino that is rapidly becoming a decent library of both books and holotapes. She has mentioned plans to civilize the area, to bring about a... a New New Vegas. I cannot fault this, whatever her true motives, and it is with this goal that I busy myself in the idle hours that I am not by her side.

Apart from the books and tapes and computers and a suite from which to manage them, she has also given me something I do not relish: an assistant. This preening adonis, one Arcade Gannon by name, was a Follower of the Apocalypse- but now Lizzy Blue's follower. I despair for the future of that group if Gannon is what passes for a top-notch researcher among them. This cynical layabout's idea of research involves watching old gladiator movies for Latinate grammar, and tinkering with the dosage of chems to ameliorate the suffering of his guinea pigs, Freeside's endemic junkies... calling it "biology." Or "anthropology," depending on what day it is.

Now, he is at least civil to me, though I doubt I am to him, and he seems to vacillate between vitriolic snark about my tribal origins, and awed obsequiousness at the great expanse of my scholarly acumen. In all fairness, Gannon has achieved a depth of reading- real, intelligent reading, almost unmatched among wastelanders. His clerical efforts are adequate, but there are two reasons I do not whip him soundly and send him on his way like a blonde dog. The first is that he has had unprecedented access to Lizzy Blue for some time, and unlike the self-conscious deflection of questions about himself, Arcade Gannon is more than willing to talk about our mutual courier friend- his courier master.

The second reason ties in quite neatly- as I have said, he seems to disdain me for my tribal origins, and on occasion will let slip details about his past that he condescendingly assumes I won't recognize. But- and he should not forget this- I am the Sword-Of-Heroes. My mental attainments are beyond compare, and I know all about those who lay claim to the birthright of long-dead America. I have sifted through the sherds and midden-heaps of that haunted place, Raven Rock. The Enclave are not unknown to me. Arcade Gannon has a secret, one that promises even greater access to old world riches. Arcade Gannon has a secret, and I am going to bring it fully to light.

Until then, there remains an important question that must be answered.

"What the hell is that noise?"

"What noise is that, uh... Mr. Heroes?" He pretends to have trouble understanding my name. I shoot him a withering look.

"Don't play dumb, Gannon. Open your thrice-damned ears." He cocks his head and holds up a hand as if it will amplify things. "Behind the whistling of the air vents, the humming of the lights... that... that clicking."

"Clicking. Must be deathwatch beetles. Those always accentuate a Gothic drama."

I glare at him and say nothing. My own ears are keen from years of hunting, and I trust them, wandering about my library (her library) until I found myself in my suite, Gannon close behind. The noise was indeed louder here, and I followed it to the back corner of the room, where there was a door I never used, that led to a sort of hidden room, and a corridor with a private elevator.

These boltholes were in many of the local casino's suites, a remnant of those heady prewar days when a highroller or celebrity might need to leave discreetly after some indiscretion. The elevator system here at the Lucky 38 is Lizzy Blue's private transportation. She likes to use it to pop in unannounced, sometimes while I am at work in the library, sometimes while I sleep. Just to remind me who is truly in control, to remind me of the Damoclesean sword over me. The elevator is of course only usable by her- some alien science she brought back from the Big Empty- so I have ignored the bolthole as unnecessary.

But now- there was something there.

I looked through the doorway into the dim space beyond. It had been empty last I looked, but now a strange mechanical shape lay at the far wall, giving off a faint glow from its odd surfaces. I stepped into the chamber, but noticed that Arcade Gannon was hanging back.

"Draw that plasma shooter you carry, Gannon, and see if anyone's near the elevator. You'll never make Squad Sigma if you're scared of the dark."

He grimaced at the mention of the Enclave's elite soldiers, but the expression changed into one that seemed... relieved. Sometimes it is a balm to have our secrets known. Arcade Gannon grinned and affected a funny accent as he drew the energy pistol from his labcoat.

"It's a fair cop, but society is to blame!" Must have been some prewar joke I was not familiar with. Dropping the accent, he leaned in close. I could smell the horrid pink bubblegum he sometimes chewed. "You know, we're going to have to sit down and have a chat about this."

"That's what I was hoping." He nodded and ducked into the corridor.

I turned my attention to the machine. It was clearly the source of the noise, a deep clicking from its innards. That and the light its controls gave off told me this was no museum piece, though its style- a combination of clean angles and swooping curves- screamed prewar. Whatever it was, it was functional. I swiped my finger over the nameplate, and it came away with a faint smear of red. Sniffing it, I instantly regretted it. There was a terrible chemical reek to the residue, and I wiped it on my pants hastily.

"Sierra Madre Vending," Gannon read out loud from behind me. "There's nobody back there, by the way."

"Must have been our dear employer. But why would she bring an ancient vending machine here?"

Gannon sighed. "Not to tell tales out of school, but she went there. To the Sierra Madre. Some bad things happened, and she won't supply many details. Well, any. At least to me." Damn. "Whatever happened there, Veronica cried for a week."

And with that, the Sword-Of-Heroes turned to its next target.


	4. Medical Matters

MEDICAL MATTERS

"I'm surprised she let Rose-of-Sharon go." I looked appraisingly at Gannon, and took a kebab from the platter I'd had sent up. I gave it a sniff and pushed the platter across the table. He took one as well, then frowned.

"Gecko, again? I had hoped you would remember my ethical choices, Mr. Heroes." He began disassembling the kebab with a petulant expression, piling grilled chunks of yucca and pepper onto his plate, returning the gecko meat to the platter.

"Gannon, in all my years, I have never heard such ridiculous play-acting. You're telling me you don't... eat meat?" I knew he didn't. There were many of the Followers who didn't, and that may have been a fine moral choice for the luxury of the Old World. I considered it a frivolous affectation, and wasn't going to let him live it down.

Gannon sighed. "You were saying, Mr. Sword? I didn't mean to interrupt your musings with my scrupulous living." I snared his discarded tidbits of meat and popped a few in my mouth with relish, chewing noisily. Yes, worth it.

"Not bad at all." It wasn't. I've sampled every bit of bush tucker the wide wastelands had to offer, and there was plenty that was horrifying, most of it mediocre, and some... well, you haven't lived until you've had a freshly fried softshell mirelurk cake. Or a deathclaw omelette. Still, these kebabs stood with the best of them. "Gannon, you of all people must understand the hold she has on us."

He set his vegetables down, mouth hanging open. I pitied him for a moment, but he set his jaw and a bit fire returned.

"You think that because I was raised in the... with them, that I would roll over for some neofascist conspiracy? I have been opposing that- with as little violence as I can- by helping people." He pushed the platter as far away from him as possible. "Look, Mr. Sword. I may not approve of all her methods, but she is trying to improve this world. I have seen some of the evidence. And she attracts people to her. Flawed, desperate people- but full of so much good. Heroes."

"Am I one of those flawed, desperate people?"

He leaned in closer. Arcade Gannon was very tall. The Sword-Of-Heroes is not deterred by bullies, though. I leaned in as well. Our noses were almost touching. I hoped he could smell the meat on my breath.

After a tense moment he leaned back, and I relaxed as well.

"Yes. I believe you are. She chose you for something-"

"I chose her, Gannon."

The corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile. "I know you think some... great destiny brought you here. Some legendary doom. Now, I can't see any good way to explain it, but I think she chose you. Your... role could be even greater than ours."

I favored him with a scowl. The preening popinjay was... right. But I wasn't going to admit it.

"The Sword-Of-Heroes remains ever sharp. Despite what you may have to say." I looked away for but a moment, giving my best impression of a contemplative scholar. "Tell me, Gannon- you are what passes for a medical professional here. Why would our dear Lizzy Blue allow Miss Cassidy to be operated on at the New Vegas Medical Clinic?"

"Well, having worked with Jane Usanagi on and off over the years, I know there's one reason an otherwise healthy person would visit the Clinic." His face fell.

"What's that, Gannon? Out with it."

"Implants," he said, and rubbed a hand across his forehead. "It's begun."


	5. Patient Confidentiality

_Sorry for the long hiatus- life gets in the way of fanfic. I saw a meme recently on tumblr that showcases a sunglass-wearing American soldier complaining about the chief feature of Afghanistan- the ready joke being that "I didn't know Craig Boone had a youtube." Someone suggested that this needed to be shipped- and when it comes to weird obscure suggestions like that... well, challenge accepted._

**PATIENT CONFIDENTIALITY**

"You understand, even if this wasn't the critical period after surgery, I couldn't let you barge in on my patients." The doctor looked at me, and I went to put her in her place, but she turned to Gannon with a frown that accentuated the lines between her eyebrows. "Arcade, can you explain it to your friend?"

"He's not- look, Jane, I'm sorry. Can we talk about this a moment? Over... you know, there?" Arcade Gannon sounded, to this chronicler's ears, plaintive. Doctor Usanagi pursed her lips together, but I could tell she would give way.

She was strong in her way, despite her perpetually cheerful tone. On my first visit to New Vegas, on my way in, I was limping from an embarrassing encounter with some "nightstalkers," as the locals call them. A friendly merchant recognized the importance and value to his city of the Sword-of-Heroes, and directed me to the clinic. Doctor Usanagi gave me no reason to rebuke her, and fulfilled her position admirably, using a combination of the makeshift wasteland medicine we have all come to know and love, and some delightful prewar scientific equipment. I was even allowed to peruse the Auto-Doc's operating schematics while I recuperated. P.T. Physick- a RobCo subsidiary, I believe- always had the best typography in their documentation.

During my visit there was a brief assault by the "Fiends" gang, undoubtedly searching for the chems that gave them their name. It was brief- a chem-addled trio of buffoons armed with truncheons won't last long against even the most indolent of mercenaries- which the clinic guards certainly were. Usanagi aided in the defense, but I could tell at the time she'd rather have coddled the Fiends and soothed their ills rather than turning them into a fine red mist.

Her expression was hard now, but I could see a faint tremble in her chin that told me that compassion was dying to come out. In that moment, the Sword-of-Heroes knew that discretion is sometimes the better part of valor, and I offered something that I rarely dally with- a meek smile.

It took a moment for Doctor Usanagi to respond in kind, but eventually she did and turned away, taking Gannon by the sleeve of his matching labcoat, and ushering him into a back hallway.

Left on my own with the two clinic guards, I stole a rolling chair from underneath the clinic's front counter and had a seat. In front of me was a tube of glue, a dull scalpel and a tiny riot of paper shreds and bits of string. Bookbinding? I'd have to ask the Doctor about that one, when time permitted. Or perhaps I'd invite her to the laboratory for a nightcap. Underneath her selfless savior exterior, Doctor Usanagi- Jane?- was a fine-looking woman.

I began to pare my nails with the scalpel, and looked over at one of the guards, as he lounged on a battered sofa.

"Having many Fiend attacks lately?" I didn't really care, but it was the duty of the Sword-of-Heroes to find and record stories whenever possible. You never knew when the anecdote of some random chucklehead would provide a much-needed clue.

I needn't have worried, as the guard shrugged and made a noncommital grunt. I looked across the room to his counterpart, leaning up against some file cabinets- he shrugged as well, and looked off into space.

I gave as caustic as a sigh as possible, and concentrated on my task.

From the backroom I caught only mutters. My highly-trained senses were considerable, but the clinic was surprisingly noisy, and between whirring Auto-Docs, snoring nightshift doctors, and moaning junkies, I couldn't make much out. Briefly Doctor Usanagi raised her voice enough for me to hear.

"Damnit, Arcade, I'm not helping people because I'm in the Followers, I'm in the Followers because I help people!" A fine distinction, I'm sure, but worthy of praise. Too many are stuck on ideology instead of truth- titles, instead of meaning- these days. I nodded grudgingly as their heated discussion quieted back down to inaudible.

I was beginning to get impatient, when the door opened, letting a shaft of harsh sunlight into the dim lobby. The figure silhouetted in the doorway was instantly recognizable by a stray glint of light across his sunglasses, and the crimson beret just above them.

Craig Boone.

Lizzy Blue's 1st Recon thug stepped into the lobby, slamming the door behind him. He looked at me, face a mask of... contempt, or perhaps indigestion. He gave a perfunctory nod to the seated guard, greeting him in his baritone deadpan. "Clark." The guard blanched and said nothing.

Boone turned to me, and folded his arms. "She wants to see you."

Gannon trotted out from the back hallway, appearing suddenly at my side. "Craig, what's-"

"Not you," Boone interrupted, stony as ever. He pointed one surprisingly long and delicate finger in my direction. "Just him. You play doctor with your Follower friends. We'll be back."

Arcade Gannon swallowed noisily and looked down at me. "Alright, Mr. Heroes. Have a good visit. We'll catch up after..." I nodded, not wanting to dignify the maudlin tone with a verbal response. Boone was already out the door and I started a brisk walk to catch up with his stoic plod.

I'd expected a walk back to the Lucky 38, or maybe a rendezvous at some random clandestine location- but not this. A vertibird was dropping down from the sky towards the flat open area outside the clinic. I'd seen them before, both the original ones operated by the Enclave and the ones reclaimed by the NCR, though there had been few of those. I knew Lizzie Blue had somehow arranged the use of one and its crew for her personal transportation needs. That had been part of the agreement drawn up after Hoover Dam- it was an important part of a story, and one that I had documented thoroughly, how she had the NCR still wrapped around her finger despite kicking them off the Dam and assassinating General Oliver.

This was much closer to a vertibird than I'd ever been, and as it descended it reminded me less of a machine than it did a heron, a huge, stately bird that hopefully could still be found in the wilds marshes of Maryland, and one that seemed to levitate at takeoff and landing despite its bulk.

Boone interrupted my reverie by grabbing my sleeve and pulling me forward, over the metal stubs where a fence had once been, and down into the rotor wash. The vertibird had barely touched down before he forced me up the step and into the 'bird, and it took off again. Boone clipped some sort of lanyard to my leather belt, apparently not trusting me to stay in my seat, before himself plopping down. I looked all around me as the ground raced away- this craft was one of the dropships with no side doors, allowing for quick exit in a "hot LZ". Behind me was a pilot in a sealed cockpit, and on the bench across from me were two of the NCR's feared rangers, in their grim armor.

One was in a shiny black version, brand new beneath a dusty trenchcoat. The other's armor, though similar in design, was a battered green with blurred prewar army markings. The vicissitudes of military outfitting were beyond the attention of the Sword-of-Heroes, and I turned to Boone. "Well?"

"We'll talk to her in a bit. First she wanted me to show you something. It's a bit of a trip." With that he was done, and slumped down in his seat, ignoring me. I looked at the rangers- I could hear their breathing through the filters on their masks, but the impassive surface of their helmets betrayed no emotion, and they said nothing.

The vertibird flew... West, I believe, for quite a while, out of Vegas and off into the mountains. I took in the scenery as best I could but the waste seemed to stretch off infinitely, and with very little variation. After some time, the ranger in black leaned forward and tapped Boone on the leg.

"Sir." His voice came out sounding metallic from the speaker in the helmet. Boone straightened up in his seat, stretching, then turned to me.

"Alright, scribbler, time to get an eyeful." He pointed out his side of the vertibird, and we hovered at a sloping ridge of a low mountain. I followed his finger with my eyes, and saw a very strange thing. "You wanna see what the Sierra Madre looks like?"

In the valley before us, down the sloping cliffs of the mountain, was a sprawling complex, an enormous casino building surrounded by stately clusters of bungalows and more utilitarian outbuildings. At least, that was what I was able to see once I got over the shock of what I saw: a blood-red cloud that filled the basin, and flowed in and around the buildings on sickly-looking currents. There were some lights, and a hint of movement below, but we were too high to see any details.

"What... what is that?"

Boone snorted. "We got the Cloud. Piles of the Cloud. What's that over there?" He curled his hands in front of his eyes, pantomiming binoculars, before dropping them and grimacing. "Fucking Cloud."

"But what is it?" I did not know what to think. Boone reached under the bench and handed me a mason jar. Looking inside, I saw an oily, reddish residue that covered the inside.

"Well, it's a toxic fucking cloud. Where it's thickest, it's fatal within minutes, and it bungs up most any kind of protective gear. Even the good prewar stuff when they first tried to get rid of the cloud. Some of those guys are still down there."

I wasn't sure what to make of that last remark, as it didn't make much sense. Boone continued- I'd never heard him speak so much, but I'm sure this was all stuff he'd been instructed to tell me, and now he seemed to have warmed up to the subject. "Down there in the buildings, the Cloud is thin enough that it doesn't kill you immediately. But you have to get in. Fucking scavengers have been trying to get in and loot the Sierra Madre for hundreds of years. Most die before they can find it- that's some hard country we flew over, full of critters. And then you have to survive once you're in- the cloud, traps, Ghost People..." Boone shook his head. "Did you know, that a while back, before your time- someone kidnapped Elizabeth and brought her here? Tried to make her unearth some prewar tech?"

"I can imagine how well that went," I said, and gave a laugh. She was pretty consistent in how she responded to people who tried to force her into doing things.

"Shall we get a closer look?" He banged on the cabin wall, and the vertibird pilot banked sharply, heading down closer to the strange red atmosphere. "The prewar tech I mentioned- it's important. Very important. With the cloud, even Elizabeth can't operate here safely and conveniently. So it's going to get cleaned out. But if word gets out..."

That was easy enough to understand. "Everone and their dog will come to the Sierra Madre. So?"

"So you've been asking a lot of questions." He nodded to the rangers, and before I could react, the ranger in green grabbed his counterpart by the duster, and with a solid kick, pushed him out of the open side of the vertibird. His scream rang out for only a moment, until the Cloud muffled it and he dropped out of sight. I held on tight to the bench. "So you need to not fuck this up for us."

"I understand."

"Good. I knew you'd be more receptive to what she had to say if you had some informative demonstration first."

The red eyes of the remaining ranger's helmet turned towards me, and then I knew. She reached out, laying one of the heavy recoil gauntlets on my knee before removing her helmet. Her trademark blue hair was plastered against her forehead with sweat, and her face was pale and intense. She smiled at me, locking eyes.

And I was terrified.


End file.
